by Marie Laval
And she had been foolish enough to obey. She was indeed a stupid, stupid girl, and it was no wonder Bruce McGunn didn’t want her.
Never had a night passed so slowly.
Rose lay in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, desolate but unable to shed another tear. She watched shadows move on the walls, cast anxious glances towards the curtained window that made the room feel stifling like a tomb, and tried to block the burning memories of Bruce’s kisses and caresses, and the agony caused by his rejection.
His teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt, he curled his hand into a tight fist and punched the wall, once, then once again as he walked down the corridor. He punched so hard his knuckles bled, yet he felt nothing.
No, that wasn’t true. He felt plenty. Self-loathing, despair, pain. And burning desire. It wasn’t like him to be so noble about a woman. He’d been a fool not to take her if he wanted her so badly, especially when she all but offered herself to him.
He yanked his boots off and threw them across the room. They fell on the wooden floorboards with a loud thud. Next he tugged his shirt out of his trousers, unfastened a couple of buttons and yanked it over his head before throwing it in a heap at the foot of the bed.
Hell. He could still taste her, smell her. He would never be able to get her scent out of his head ever again – that sweet, floral, woman scent that was uniquely hers, and that he was sure he’d crave for the rest of his days.
He had been so close to taking her tonight. The moment he’d looked into her deep blue eyes and kissed her and felt her bare skin heat and shiver under his touch, his blood had turned to thick hot lava and his body had pulsed and taken over.
Thankfully reality had jerked him back from the edge of the dark, hot precipice he was sliding into before it was too late. He had no right to her. No right at all. She was radiant, bursting with life and light whereas he was haunted by demons and the spectre of madness – and, he’d just found out, was the son of a murderer. Despite everything, he still had some remnants of a conscience.
She didn’t want him anyway. She still hoped McRae would take her back. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Wallace would take her to his farm where she would stay, safe out of McRae’s and Morven’s reach.
He sat up on the bed, shoved a pillow behind his back and winced as his sore muscles and bruised ribs protested. Staring at the fire dancing in the hearth, he started replaying in his mind the events of the day.
What did Morven want with Rose? Was it really McNeil in the Nag’s Head before or had he mistaken him for somebody else? Why did he think the same men who had ambushed him in Inverness were there tonight?
And the last, and most puzzling, question. Was Donald Robertson his father?
As a matter of habit, he lifted his hand to his throat to toy with his medallion, before curling his fist and slamming it against the mattress. He had worn his mother’s medallion since he was a baby. He had treasured it, felt for it at night when as a child he cried for the mother he would never know, and later as a good-luck charm before a dangerous mission.
He felt almost bereft now without it around his neck. However there was no way he’d ever wear something that had been obtained by murder and felony – and something that had once belonged to a McRae.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘I’m glad to see you’re up and ready, Miss Rose. I was just about to send for you.’
Wallace’s voice behind her stopped her in her tracks. Bedbugs! Why was he here already, just as she was just about to try and talk the landlord into trading one of her silver necklaces for the loan of a horse and set off for Westmore.
She took a deep breath, forced a smile and turned to face him.
‘Good morning, Mr Wallace.’
He didn’t smile back. He looked serious, worried even.
‘I’m afraid we must leave town as soon as possible. There’s trouble at the harbour.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘A steamer has just docked to be loaded up with grain, the army cordoned off the area but I doubt they’ll be able to hold people back very long.’
‘Why would people want to hold them back?’
Wallace’s face hardened. ‘Because they are trying to prevent a steamer from being loaded up with grain.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘McRae keeps shipping tons of oats and barley to Newcastle, Liverpool or London when there’s not enough to be sold to families here. People are fed up, Miss Rose. Fed up with starving or eating boiled grass and nettle soup. With the potato crop failing last year, things have gone from bad to worse – except for McRae, of course, who is lining his pockets when his people are suffering.’
Her chest tightened. How could she ever have believed Cameron innocent of all the wrongdoings and the suffering on his estate, and believe it was Morven, and Morven alone, who was responsible?
Shivering despite her thick cloak, she followed Wallace into the courtyard where a brown mare and a grey horse were being saddled, their breath steaming in the cold, grey foggy morning.
Wallace pointed out to the mare.
‘This one’s yours. Lieutenant McGunn bought it for you before he left. He was in a great hurry to be on his way.’ He cast her a quizzical glance. ‘So much in a hurry I’m afraid he didn’t have time to bid you goodbye.’
‘That’s all right,’ she retorted with as much indifference as she could muster, ‘I know the man to be totally devoid of social graces and wasn’t expecting him to.’
That was a lie. It had stung to stand at her window to watch his tall, black-clad figure ride to the end the street then disappear, swallowed up by the freezing fog, and to realise he cared so little about her he hadn’t even bothered to bid her goodbye.
Wallace smiled. ‘Aye, Miss Rose. ‘It’s true he was never one to mince his words or waste time with niceties, but you couldn’t find a more true and loyal friend, and that’s what counts in the end, isn’t it?’
Feeling chastised, she bent her head and sighed. ‘I suppose so.’
He held out his hand. ‘Here, let me take your bag and strap it to the saddle.’
He helped her climb up and they rode out of the courtyard and into a dense crowd. The silence was intense, almost deafening and anything but peaceful, she thought, as she urged her horse to a walking pace and followed Wallace.
They were about halfway up the main street when a series of gunshots ripped through the morning like thunder, startling Rose’s horse. Screaming erupted around her. The crowd moved back and forth like a giant wave, making it hard for her to rein the horse in and stop it from trampling over the people around her.
Emerging from the fog like a ghostly army, soldiers marched toward the square, their bayonets pointing forward, whereas at the other end of the square at least two dozen special constables ran up the street, waving their truncheons and hitting anybody standing in their path.
Fear made Rose’s heart pound. Bile rose in her throat. It was hopeless! Why didn’t these people run away? Couldn’t they see they were trapped and risked getting shot, stabbed or crushed to death?
Her horse snorted and started to rear. She gripped the reins so tightly her knuckles went white. Looking around in a panic, she saw that the crowd’s movements were pushing Wallace towards the soldiers, further away from her.
‘Get away, Miss Rose,’ he shouted. ‘Head toward the church. At the crossroads, take the coast road toward Melvich. There’s an inn, The Valiant Stag, at the edge of town. I’ll meet you there.’
He said something else but his words were drowned in the clamour of the crowd.
She urged her horse forward and manoeuvred through the crowd inch by inch. Next to her a constable, his face contorted in anger, brought down his club onto a woman’s back, deaf to her pleas for mercy and the shrieks of the little girl who clung to her blood-splattered skirt. When the woman collapsed to the ground, he started kicking her with his black hob-nailed boots.
‘Stop! Are you mad? You’re going
to kill her,’ Rose shouted, but he ignored her and gave the woman one last ferocious kick before aiming his club at the little girl.
With a howl of rage, Rose pushed her horse straight into him. He lost his balance and fell on the cobbles. Then everything then went too fast. She tried to haul back on the reins but her horse was out of control. As she struggled to stay on the saddle she heard the constable scream as he was crushed under her horse’s hooves.
After what felt like hours she managed to push her way out of the square and into a quieter back street. Breathless, her hands shaking so badly she could hardly hold on to the reins, she leant to one side. Tears streamed down her face as she heaved, gagged and coughed until her stomach was empty.
Wiping her mouth with a corner of her cloak, she sat up and looked around. A church steeple rose above the slate rooftops. If she rode that way, she would end up on the road to Melvich. She started the mare in the opposite direction. She wasn’t going to Melvich. She was going to Westmore.
The early morning fog had cleared by the time Bruce rode past Westmore’s imposing gates early in the afternoon. He took note of the two pretentious stone griffins, heraldic symbols of the McRaes’, which now towered from the gateposts. They hadn’t been there when he came to Westmore with his grandfather – his only ever visit. He was ten.
He’d often wondered what had prompted Dougal McGunn to visit Westmore that time. He had no idea what had taken place between him and Lady Patricia, but his grandfather hadn’t sobered up for a whole week on his return to Wrath and had embarked on a series of costly improvements to the fisheries shortly after.
He remembered every detail of that short visit – being fed soup and buttered scones in the kitchen while his grandfather had his interview with Lady Patricia, being shooed outside by an impatient butler dressed in parrot green, red and gold. He had time to explore the fancy grounds, find a pond to throw stones into and a couple of trees to climb before his grandfather had shouted that it was time to leave. He hadn’t set foot in the castle, seen the old bat or met with young McRae then.
He hadn’t thought about it for years. Funny how it was all coming back now.
He took a deep breath. Never mind childhood memories. He needed to focus on what he would tell McRae if he was to save Wrath from his and his unscrupulous bankers’ greed.
He rode up the two-mile lane leading to the manor house. Perched on top of a small hill, it favoured a French chateau with its turrets, spires and chimneys, and the white walls that glowed in the dull winter light. Elaborate topiaries and statues of Greek and Roman gods scattered manicured parterres. Fountains spurted water towards the grey skies. Lady Patricia and her son had spared no expense to make Westmore one of the grandest manor houses in the whole of Scotland.
Once inside the courtyard he signalled to a stable boy and ordered him to watch his horse.
‘Give him some oats and water,’ he instructed before jumping down and slipping the lad a coin. He didn’t plan to stay long, so it wasn’t necessary to take his saddle bags with him.
Around him, an army of servants, dressed in the same garish livery he remembered, unloaded carts and carriages and rushed through service doors, their arms filled with extravagant bouquets, bottles of wine and spirits, and crates filled with fresh produce and exotic fruit, among which he recognised mangoes, pineapples, oranges and pomelos.
He decided against following them and instead walked around to the main entrance. A butler wearing a starchy expression contrasting sorely with his colourful clothing, opened the door, eyed him suspiciously and showed him in after he introduced himself.
Damn, he thought as he waited in the gigantic hall. Westmore was truly a palace fit for a king. The hallway’s chequered black and white floor gleamed under the glittering lights of several enormous crystal chandeliers. Huge paintings, mostly hunting scenes and landscapes, adorned the walls. The contrast with Wrath’s dusty hunting trophies, chipped stone flags and threadbare curtains couldn’t be starker.
‘His Lordship will see my lord in the library,’ the butler called when he came back. ‘If my lord would care to follow me.’
Bruce smiled as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a tall gilded mirror as they left the hall. No wonder the man looked down at him. With his long, dark hair and stubbly cheeks, and the cuts and bruises on his face, not to mention his muddy coat and riding boots, ripped jacket and crumpled white shirt, he belonged more to a seedy backstreet tavern than a palace like Westmore.
He followed the butler along endless corridors, past a succession of richly furnished drawing rooms, a banqueting suite and a ballroom where crystal chandeliers dripped from moulded ceilings, their lights reflecting onto the polished parquet flooring. In every room gold brocade curtains draped tall windows and gilded griffins adorned enormous mantelpieces. Everywhere servants dusted furniture, polished already gleaming mirrors and floors, and arranged elaborate flower displays. The whole castle buzzed with the preparations for McRae’s grand ball.
At last the butler opened a door to the library. Bruce paused in the doorway and blinked. Light poured in through large French windows which opened onto a terrace and offered a breathtaking view of the grounds and of the dull, slate grey waters of the Firth in the distance. Every wall but one was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling – the remaining wall being covered with portraits.
Leather armchairs and lacquered Chinese cabinets were scattered around the room but, unlike his own desk at Wrath, McRae’s walnut kneehole desk was free of clutter and sported a silver inkwell, a rosewood cigar box and an oil lamp.
Once the butler had closed the door behind him, Bruce strode across the room to take a look at the collection of portraits, most of them of men in sombre black attire, hunting outfit or parade uniforms posing proudly for posterity. As he scanned through the paintings, his eyes were attracted by one of the smaller portraits and he stepped a little closer.
There was something familiar about the tall, powerfully built man wearing the scarlet coatee, dark green tartan kilt, white and red diced hose of the 92nd Gordon Highlanders. He was of course familiar with the uniform, since he too had worn it until his discharge eighteen months before. The man in the painting had one hand resting on the pommel of his claymore, while he held his blue bonnet topped with six black ostrich feathers with the other.
Niall McRae. It had to be him. In the right-hand corner of the painting were the artist’s signature and a date: April 1815. This must be Niall McRae’s last painting before Quatre-Bras. Less than two months later, he would be dead.
He looked more closely at the man’s face. It was like staring at his own reflection. He blinked, and hissed a breath. He must be more tired than he thought. He was seeing things. Niall McRae was indeed tall and dark-haired, but he looked nothing like him. It was the uniform, and the light playing tricks on him, that was all.
He made himself focus on the medals pinned on the man’s broad chest: the Egyptian sphinx, the 1813 Vittoria gold medal, and one half of the medal of the battle of Alexandria. After listening to Rose reading her father’s journal, he had expected to see it there. Only there was something odd, he thought as he leant closer. The artist appeared to have painted the wrong half of the medal.
He shrugged. It was probably only a mirror effect, and in any case, it didn’t really matter which half McRae was wearing. Did it?
Of course it bloody well did! Actually there was a way to find out which half McRae wore in the painting, and it was to decipher the two numbers engraved on the medal. Bruce narrowed his eyes, tried different angles and stifled another curse. It was no good. The numbers were too small. He needed a magnifying glass. He turned round, his gaze skimmed the room, stopped at McRae’s desk.
He was halfway across the room when the door opened and McRae walked in.
They both froze and stared at each other. They hadn’t met since the enquiry at Whitehall eighteen months before, when McRae had accompanied his friend Frazier to a couple of hearings.
Bruce swallowed hard, remembering all too well McRae’s mocking looks and sneering comments as his actions were being scrutinized and his future played out.
Dressed in light grey, tight-fitting trousers, maroon tailcoat and a pink and almond green silk waistcoat, MacRae was, as usual, the epitome of wealth and elegance. Bruce took a deep breath. He may be a dandy, but he was also the man who was trying to ruin him, the man who had lied to Rose, made a fool of her – his throat tightened – the man who’d seduced her.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, McGunn.’ An uneasy smile flickered on McRae’s lips – or was it a nervous twitch? ‘I thought my butler had gone raving mad or had supped too much liquor when he announced you were here.’
McGunn bowed his head in a curt greeting.
‘McRae.’
As McRae came closer, Bruce noticed his pasty face, the purple shadows under his eyes and the traces of liquor and cigar smoke emanating from his person. The man’s dissolute lifestyle must be catching up with him.
‘You look as if you encountered some kind of … problem on your way here, McGunn. I hope your injuries aren’t too painful.’
Of course, he must already know about the beating at the harbour the night before. No doubt Morven’s thugs had already made their report.
‘It’s nothing for you to worry about,’ Bruce replied with feigned indifference, even if at that moment he wanted nothing more than wipe the smirk of McRae’s face.
‘Very well. Please sit down.’
McRae gestured toward an armchair and sat behind the kneehole desk. He may look calm, languid even, but the nervous glance he darted toward the family portraits did not escape Bruce’s attention, and neither did the trembling of his hand as he opened the rosewood cigar box and held it out for Bruce to help himself. When Bruce declined, he dug a cigar out and stuck it between his teeth.
